


Behavioral Therapy

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch wants something out of John. The trick is figuring it out when John can barely think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behavioral Therapy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Behavioral Therapy (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137165) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> Thanks to [lzqsk](http://lzqsk.livejournal.com/) for the Chinese translation!

"And how is this, Mr. Reese?"

John tried not to react, but Finch wasn't making it easy. It felt like his fingers were everywhere, and something was stroking over John's chest, something soft like suede. So far this hadn't gone at all the way John was expecting.

"Feels pleasurable, doesn't it?"

Why was he asking obvious questions? Finch never asked obvious questions.

"You're very attractive like this, you realize. I'm allowing myself to get distracted. But it's time to move on, Mr. Reese."

Okay, maybe now Finch would get tough on him. John was pretty good at peeking under blindfolds; he'd had to be in his old line of work. Right now, from just below the edge of black cloth, he could see Finch had pulled something new from his box of surprises, something long and shiny with, what was that, ridges? John suppressed a shiver. 

"I'm going to try something now, Mr. Reese, and I want you to give me your honest reaction."

Finch kept asking for his honest reactions. That was kind of tough, considering the position he'd put John in, bound up and completely exposed, and what with the gag and all. John repeated a noise of protest.

"You know what I mean," Finch chided.

John just clutched the little cluster of bells more tightly in his hand and waited. This was what Finch had asked for, in his roundabout, dry way, and John had told him he was game, in spite of Finch's obliquely-worded concerns about "uncomfortable situations in your past."

That wasn't an issue. John would give the man anything—he owed Finch everything up to and including his life.

John had figured Finch's request was connected to wanting to take control for once; that Finch was tired of being the one with limitations when it came to their time in the sack. Or maybe Finch wanted to hurt John a little, give someone else a taste of what he was feeling with the chronic pain of his injuries. If so, that was fine, too. John could take it. 

But so far all Finch had done was make John feel incredibly good—rubbing him down with sweet-smelling oil, fondling his cock and balls until he was on the verge of coming, stroking him with that chamois, and playing with his nipples until John had to clench his fists to keep from making pitiful sounds.

And now this mystery from the box.

First, he heard the familiar squelch of the lubricant bottle, that fancy, odorless, hypoallergenic, organic compound Finch paid through the nose for, and then, without warning, the cold touch of something pressing against his hole.

He kept his reaction to himself, even when he felt pressure and then his ass opening up for whatever it was—not a dildo, because he closed up almost immediately around the tip. Then more pressure, and this time he did inhale sharply, because with a ripple of thumps, the rod-thing penetrated him more deeply with a series of nudges against his sweet spot that felt incredibly good.

"Noted," Finch said, "if only by your increased respiration and the flush on your cheeks. Honestly, you're making this much more difficult than it needs to be, Mr. Reese." Finch withdrew the rod excruciatingly slowly, so John felt each bump, and then pushed it back in again, making John's toes curl.

Finch huffed out a little breath of a laugh. "It's times like these I truly appreciate the rigorousness of your previous training." 

A drop of precome was tickling in the tip of John's cock—he could feel it dangling there. With the next thrust of Finch's hand, it joined the irritating puddle of wetness on John's stomach.

The rest of his focus was on Finch's hand slowly and steadily tormenting his ass.

_Thump-thump thump-thump._

John's breathing grew more erratic, and he exhaled on an almost sound.

"What was that, Mr. Reese?" Finch sounded eager. Warmth suddenly appeared at John's right side, and shockingly, a single finger stroked over his cheek. He almost turned toward it in reaction, stopping himself just in time.

Finch made a disappointed noise. And then that delicate finger stroked a line up John's cock.

At that, John did make a sound, tiny and inchoate at the back of his throat, as he clenched down involuntarily on the thickness in his ass.

"Very good. Very good."

John gasped and twisted his wrists in the restraints, tightening around the rod as Finch continued to move it slowly in and out, in and out. Christ, John might come soon.

"I should, perhaps, explain the purpose of this exercise," Finch mused.

Tears of sweat were dampening the blindfold now and beading John's neck. And there was a strange roaring in his ears that was making it hard for him to understand what Finch was saying. He closed his hand more tightly around the small bundle of bells, his whole body humming. If only Finch didn't stop what he was doing with his hand.

"I understand from your service record you once withstood sixteen hours of...negative persuasion. But my intent is just the opposite, Mr. Reese." Fingertips brushed across John's chest, across his right nipple, rubbing back and forth. "There's really no cause to resist."

Resist? John couldn't resist anything. He was on his back with his hands cuffed above his head in heavy restraints. His knees were tucked up and apart with straps hauling them back, and a final, padded strap around his waist had him firmly stuck to the mattress. 

It was all up to Finch. He could do anything he wanted to John; that was the whole point of this thing. 

That was the whole point.

Warm fingers cupped his balls, rolling them, and a pang of intense pleasure shot through him.

John relaxed abruptly, and realized in doing so he'd been tensing against the restraints and arching against the strap around his waist almost since the beginning. His muscles buzzed with profound relief.

Finch chose that moment to close his hand around John's dick. 

John groaned loudly.

"Finally," Finch said, satisfaction in his voice, and began to stroke him, hand slick with lube, and thank God Finch was apparently ambidextrous enough, because the rod was still keeping its slow pace, _thump-thump-thump-thump_. 

John felt himself get close to the edge, and bit hard on the knot in the gag.

But Finch's hand slowed, backing him down from the edge.

John blinked behind the blindfold. It was hard to think around the roar in his head. But when Finch gave him another slow stroke, John let himself moan softly.

Finch started pumping him faster.

A sudden flush of heat rose up John's neck as he understood what Finch might be after. 

"You're doing terrific, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his voice low and confiding in John's ear.

John blushed even harder, but let out another moan, wincing at the sound of it. The payoff was immediate, though, as Finch tightened his slick fist, his hand twisting all the way up to the head of John's cock.

This time, when John grunted, it was instinctive, reactive—the sound echoing back loudly in his ears and exciting him further, so he did it again. He was close, so close.

Finch pulled the rod out again, then thrust it in quickly, over and over, in perfect sync with the hand on John's cock. John tightened his stomach muscles, grunting with each thrust, and then finally arched and went silent as he came. He was aware of Finch saying something as he shuddered through it, pleasure burning through him, but he couldn't hear the words, only the tone, soothing and low, and felt Finch stroking his hip with calloused fingertips. 

When John sank back down, he let out a weary moan of thanks.

"No, thank you, Mr. Reese."

John felt something warm and soft swiping over his chest—the chamois again, he thought. But he was too dazed to think, still shaking in reaction, he just wasn't sure of to what. 

If this were a session in his previous employment, right about now he'd be coming down and talking himself through putting it in a lockbox. And putting that box in a vault, and closing the vault and spinning the wheel, never to remember it again. 

But this one he wanted to remember.

His gag suddenly disappeared, and Finch wiped his mouth and chin with something that flashed white beneath the edge of the blindfold.

"Thanks," John said, his voice a soft rasp.

"Drink this," Finch said, poking a straw in his mouth.

John took a sip of water and carefully swallowed. 

His legs were released next—with Finch insisting on rubbing his thighs where the straps had been—and then John's arms. John suppressed a groan as he finally got them below his head. But when he started to reach for his blindfold, Finch stopped him.

"Let me do that," Finch said. "Close your eyes."

John frowned but obeyed, and worked his arms absently while he listened to Finch stump away, apparently to the bathroom—John heard the sink running—before coming back. 

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

Finch's fingers peeled away the blindfold, which was replaced by a cool, damp cloth that felt amazing as Finch wiped away the sweat from John's face. 

"Open your eyes."

John squinted open his eyes to find Finch shading them with his hand. 

"There." Finch was lying on his side and looking down at him, a small smile gracing his mouth. "Well done, Mr. Reese. Of course, the gag was a crutch of sorts. And we'll have to work on the finish—you reverted to type there—"

"Sorry."

"—but I'd say we made some progress today."

John shook his head, still not entirely sure what Finch meant by that. "And what about you, Finch? Didn't seem like you had much of a finish, unless I missed it." He tugged at the tie of Finch's silky bathrobe, but didn't undo it. Finch got a little finicky about being undressed without permission.

Finch rested his hand over John's and his lips twitched. "Next time. Believe me, I derived great satisfaction from this encounter."

The answer wasn't good enough in John's book, and he raised his head to protest, only to feel something hard-edged shift against skull. He turned and lifted it off the pillow, then raised an eyebrow at Finch.

"A decibel sensor," Finch said, untroubled. "I did get you up to about fifty decibels, but I have higher hopes for our next endeavor."

John narrowed his eyes.

"Normally, of course, you no more than tip fifteen."

John growled and leaned in to capture Finch's lips, startling what sounded almost like a half-laugh out of the man before he let John kiss him properly. When John pulled away, Finch was smiling somewhat dreamily.

"Well, I already turned the meter off, but I believe that was at least a twenty." Finch pushed him gently away.

With a sigh, John flopped onto his back. His arms and thighs were a little sore, but he had to admit, despite Finch's strange little exercise, he felt incredibly relaxed.

"There is a strategic reason for it, you know," John said in his normal tones, "and once you get in the habit, it's safer to keep it up."

"Oh, believe me, I appreciate your voice, John." 

Something about the way Finch said it made John's cock give a little twitch, and he rested his hand on top of Finch's.

"I just would prefer it if in _certain_ situations you would learn to speak up a little." Finch sounded amused, and John punished him by stroking a thumb over the thin skin of his wrist—he'd learned Finch was particularly sensitive there.

Finch made a soft sound.

John smiled and rolled over to face him, fumbling with one hand to bring the decibel reader closer.

"Let's see how this thing works," he said, and reached again for the tie on Finch's robe. "Not sure how loud I'll be with my mouth full, though."

"Mr. Reese!"

John grinned and turned the machine back on.

Turned out Finch could get pretty loud himself, given the right incentive.

 

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> The toy Finch used on Reese this time:  
> http://www.store2010.com/_e/Glass_Dildos/product/VBGL6841/8_Inch_Glass_Ringed_Pleasure_Wand.htm
> 
> Maybe he'll use this one next time: http://pleasuremenow.com/quadruplescoopphallixglassdildo.aspx
> 
> Yow.


End file.
